ical entity only in the mid-eighteenth century; and there is a history of military incursion and adventurism. In 1838, it was a thrilling defense of Herat's fort, organized by a British officer, that pre- vented the city from being reincorporated into Persia. Mghanistan's unity was also threatened by Iran's 1979 Islamic revolu- tion, when Shiite irredentism, in Herat especially, was stirred up by Ayatollah Khomeini's new theocrac Now, days after the Taliban's flight, Heratis were already wondering how Iran's consul- general would seek to turn events to Iran's advantage. Dr. Kafash excused himself and got up, patting down the folds of his shirt. While he was gone, I looked at his bookshelf There were volumes you :find in every respectable Persian library: Saadi's "Rose Garden"; the verses of Rumi and Hafez; Firdawsi's epic "Book of Kings." There were books of Koranic interpre- tation, some of them in Arabic. There was other poetry; some of it written by Heratis during the Timurid Renaissance. I heard whispering from the other side of the door. Dr. Kafash seemed to be conferring with his wife and his son. He came back accompanied by a young bo who carried tea and dates. His wife remained out of view. "If it weren't for the tuition I give him at home," Dr. Kafash said, referring to his son, "he wouldn't know a word of poetry. I teach him physics and mathe- matics, too. At his school, the Taliban forced the students to spend their time learning religious obligations." He nod- ded at the bo who went out into the corridor and came back with a book called "Islamic Instruction." Dr. Kafash was looking out the win- dow. "Over there, you know," he said, nodding toward the minarets, "they didn't just give religious lessons. They had paint- ing, calligraphy, and mathematics." Before the Soviet invasion, the au- thorities had planted cypresses and al- mond and Judas trees where Gawhar Shad's college had stood. They enclosed the garden with tall pines, and dug irri- gation channels. On public holidays, the garden was closed to men. Protected by the pines, the women of Herat slipped off their head scarves and strolled around the garden, or sat on the grass and ate cakes while their children frolicked. Dr. Kafash glanced at his son, who 32 THE NEW YORKER, JANUARY 21, 2002 FREE MERCY The woman beside me on the jitney weeps into a cell phone, "You're leaving me!" Every seat is taken, it's late, and I'm tired so I rehearse objections as she cries, "Billy! You love the way I swim! You love my eyes!" I try a childhood distraction trick: my dog Rusty runs away, it's my birthda)!, and beautiful Miss Crittenden, my first-grade teacher, is leaving . d " H th "'" h . to get marrle .... ear at!" t e woman crIes, ripping a magazine. "It's my heart!" My father dies bankrupt and I don't go to college. . . . "That time you saw the cuts on my wrist and asked if I'd do that over you and I said no? I was lying." I stutter, lisp, apologize too much. . . . "I'm coming back to an empty house?" My number is called, I'm going to Vietnam. . . . "Bill)!, please, littl " a e mercy . . . Last Sunday my son got tired of skating so we walked around the cemetery by the pond and stopped to read a poem called "Free Mercy" inscribed on a stone in 1688, about a boy who died at sea "innocent and happ)!," and I wondered if it meant one shouldn't have to pay for it, and we stood there, my wife, son, the baby, and me, each a tiny piece of free luck, and the kids skating behind us, laughing, as if Miss Crittenden would never leave them. was smiling, delighted to have a foreign visitor. When the Taliban took over, Dr. Kafash had been teaching at a pri- vate college for Shiites. That in itself was interpreted by the Sunni Taliban as an act of subversion. The school was closed down; on three occasions, Dr. Kafash was locked up. Once, he was kept under house arrest for four months. "If things were so bad, why didn't you leave?" I asked. "The ones who loved their mother- land didn't go, the ones who wanted b " never to estrangers. Life in Iran, where many of his :&iends had gone, might have been easier, but Dr. Kafash refused to abandon Herat. I admired his obstinac Toward the end of our conversation, Dr. Kafash said he wanted to offer me a book of his poe The collection was dedicated to "our suffering and unfortu- nate people, dear Mghanistap." There was a photograph of the author, taken ten years earlier. I was astonished by the difference. The photograph showed a -Philip Schultz young and vibrant man in his forties, with a head of hair and a deep black beard. The man before me was weath- ered and we He had become an old man, and quite bald. T he morning I was due to leave, I went to visit the Herat Museum, which occupies a former armory in the old fort. Last spring-around the time that the Taliban dynamited two monu- mental starnes of Buddha in the province of Bamian-officials removed the mu- seum's sculptures, including some that dated from pre-Islamic times, and de- stroyed them. But the museum was still meant to contain many beautifùl and im- portant things: Timurid ceramics, illu- minated copies of the Koran, very old bronze and copper objects, even some miniatures. At the gate to the fort, Khan's men told me that the museum had been pad- locked after the liberation. They let me onto its roof Through the skylights, I saw a few dusty pots and smashed dis-